


Satisfaction

by verymilkytea



Category: Thor (2011), Thor (Comics)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Domination, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Misogyny, Plot What Plot, Porn, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verymilkytea/pseuds/verymilkytea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has been spreading malicious lies about Sif, and lies cannot go unpunished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as straight-up delicious dubcon wrongness, or as a scene they negotiated beforehand. It’s a fantasy: whether it’s our fantasy or their fantasy is up to you. 
> 
> The working title for this was "The one where Sif comes on Loki's face". Just so you know.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to frabjousday and caphe_sua_da for their edits and suggestions.

 

 

 

  
After an hour of searching, Sif finally corners Loki in the library. He is hidden between the dustiest, darkest bookshelves she has ever seen. Several damp-smelling books are piled at his feet and another book is propped open on the ledge of the shelf before him. She has come straight from training; her singlet and skirt are clingy with sweat, but she does not care.  
  
“I would have words with you,” she tells him without preamble.  
  
“Oh, joy,” he says, looking up and giving her a mirthless smile.  
  
“How comes your brother to believe that the moment he turns his back, I begin to ceaselessly torment you? That I want nothing more than to drive a wedge between you and he, and have you cast aside?” she demands. The question hangs in the air for a moment.  
  
“Well, I told him,” Loki says. He sounds almost bored, but not quite. As if he is stifling the urge to laugh.  
  
“Why?” Her voice betrays her hurt, overloud in the quiet corner of the library. She is shaking with anger and self-satisfaction: from the first, she has been sure it was Loki himself who planted the lie. She has known ever since Thor took her aside.  
  
“Because it’s fun.” As though this is obvious. His lip curls with malicious pleasure and he adopts a sickly, plaintive tone: “Oh, Thor, Sif bullies me terribly. Why, the moment you are out of earshot she calls me horrible names and threatens to--”  
  
“Enough!” She slams him up against the archaic bookshelf so hard it knocks the wind out of him. She’s much stronger than he is; she pins him there with one hand, fisted in his tunic. He doesn’t struggle.  
  
“This from someone who _ objects_ to being called a bully,” he says, raising his eyebrows incredulously.  
  
She removes her hands from him as if scorched. Then she changes her mind.  
  
“I’ll show you bullying, Silvertongue,” she says angrily, and backhands him across the face. The blow almost knocks him sideways.  
  
He straightens up after a moment, cradling the side of his face in his hand, and looks at her with wary eyes. His face is schooled into a neutral expression, but a little blood is visible on his lip.  The sight of it does not ease her frustration. The muscles in her arms are corded; her hands clench and unclench.  
  
“Hmm,” he begins, frowning thoughtfully. “Is this the part where you try to reason with me? Promise that you won’t hurt me if I stop making up horrible lies about you?” His bloody lip makes his little smile look gruesome.  
  
“I was rather thinking that I would hurt you _and_ you’ll stop making up horrible lies about me.”  
  
“Then what is my incentive to stop?” he asks, smirking. She considers this for a moment.  
  
“If you don’t, I will hurt you again later.” She advances on him until she has him pinned again. He flattens himself against the bookshelves, as if trying to put distance between them. It doesn’t work. She’s so close now, their noses are almost touching. She can hear the hitch in his breath.  
  
“Why are you always trying to provoke me?” she asks.  
  
She genuinely wants an answer, but she has a feeling he’s not going to oblige. She expects some slippery response, but he only shifts under her, evading her eyes. He looks furious; with her, with himself. Perhaps he doesn’t trust himself to speak without provoking her further. Or perhaps he’d like to push her away and curse her into oblivion, but won’t risk damaging his precious books. Perhaps he chafes at being so easily subdued. He can rue it all he likes, it changes nothing. She holds him there easily.  
  
“Do you _want_ to be bullied?” she asks suddenly. His eyes widen, as though it is only now dawning on him, too. He’s beautiful when he’s backed into a corner; he always has been, but she can appreciate it a little more now that he’s not talking. His hair is loose and mussed a little, and it looks good this way. His eyes are still owlishly wide. It makes her want to shake him. Hard.  
  
Instead she leans in, mouth almost on his, exhaling slowly. It’s the gentlest kind of challenge she can give; more gentle than he deserves. He sets his mouth in a line, and turns his head away. Alas, it would be so much more convincing if not for the half-guilty look of supplication on his face. The motion bares the side of his neck to her and she ghosts her mouth over the pale skin, just to see him shiver.  
  
“Tell me you want it,” she murmurs in his ear. Maybe it’s cruel to make him say it when every muscle in his body is begging for it. He swallows audibly. His eyes flutter shut. But he won’t give her the satisfaction. That, or he’s not brave enough to admit it.  
  
It does not matter. When she kisses him on the mouth, hard enough to bruise, he kisses her back. She is rougher than he is - messier, and more self-assured. His mouth is slick; his lips are as soft as a woman’s. She wants more. When he opens his mouth for her, she pushes her tongue in, making him take it. He makes a little noise of surprise at having his mouth filled. Eventually he slides his tongue gently against hers as she claims his mouth.  
  
Sif breaks the kiss so she can pull her singlet over her head. She unbinds her breasts, then starts to undo the fastenings on his tunic. He kisses her again while she works her way down his clothing. When the tunic falls away, his body is covered by only the soft leggings he wears underneath. His fingers undo the clasps of her skirt and then trail down the sides of her hips to the waistline of her underwear. She catches his hands and pulls them away, delighting in how his brow furrows at being denied.  
  
She pushes him back against the bookshelf, her tongue in his mouth again. He makes a soft sound when her naked breasts brush against him, and she smiles, rubbing against him to tease him. She thinks to order him to touch them, but before she can voice her wishes he goes to it without being asked. It is almost as if he senses the unspoken command, and hurries to comply.  
  
He strokes her breasts with the pads of his fingers, then cups them with his hands. He bows his head to suck gently at one of her nipples. The rush of warmth makes her sigh and she brings her hand to cradle the back of his head. He thumbs her other nipple softly before moving to suckle it in turn. He attends to the task with a meekness she’s never seen in him before, kissing and licking, so eager to please all of a sudden. She lets her head tilt back, enjoying the soft sounds he makes as he nuzzles at her breasts.  
  
He’s very good at giving pleasure, so good it’s almost surprising. She would not have guessed he’d _ever_ spared a thought for how other people feel - and yet he must have, to be so skilled at this, to know exactly how to worry her nipple with the tip of his tongue, to roll the other between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
She rakes her nails over his shoulder, just lightly. He’s being so good, but she doesn’t feel like rewarding him yet; maybe not at all. When he kisses his way back up to her mouth, she bites his lip. He whines into her mouth. She can tell he likes it. She can taste the blood from before, still, and it does nothing to dim her lust. He moans a little when she does not let go, rubbing his body against her. His cock is hard against her thigh.  
  
She releases his lip eventually, soothing the cuts with her tongue. She is still not feeling entirely kind, so she pinches his nipples, making him buck and squirm. The soft noises in his throat are becoming steadily louder. This sweet, earnest responsiveness only encourages her. She pinches him again.  
  
He tries to bring his hand down to his erection, but her hand closes around his wrist like a vice, wrenching his arm away.  
  
“Oh, you _bitch_ ,” he moans with vicious enjoyment. Not so sweet anymore. She grasps the hair on the back of his head and pulls it taut. He knows she hates that word. His eyes are bright, his smile is sharp; he’s deliberately provoking her.  
  
“Need something else to do with your tongue, do you?” She pulls his hair again as punishment, yanking his head back. He hisses in pain. His eyes are starting to water now, but she does not give him reprieve. She reaches down and strokes his erection through the fabric of his leggings, just to torture him. She has already decided she is not going to let him come. He gasps out something inaudible.  
  
“What was that?” She can’t hide how much she’s enjoying this. She sucks bruises high on his neck, scrapes him with her teeth, marks no collar will be high enough to conceal. Nobody will ever think to blame her, to guess that it is she who uses the prince of Asgard however she wishes. Not this prince of Asgard, anyway. She ghosts her fingertips over his erection again, for only a moment, then withdraws her hand.  
  
“Oh, ngh-- no!” he nearly sobs, straining against her. Ecstatic and furious.  
  
“Oh, yes,” she says, heady with malicious satisfaction, and shoves him down between her legs. He surprises her by burying his face in the apex of her thighs, groaning like he can’t help himself, their banter apparently forgotten. She spreads her thighs wider and forces him onto his knees. She’s already wet. Seeing him down there is making her wetter.  
  
He pulls her underwear down and off before she hitches her hips up to rest on the ledge of the nearest shelf. It’s not wide enough to really support her; she has to put her legs over his shoulders. But that means she can hold him where she wants him. She toes off her sandals and digs one heel into the muscle of his shoulder, just to needle him, until he puts his face back between her legs.  
  
He opens her with his tongue first, exploring her with long, slow licks. His lips brush against her, hot and wet already. He reaches up to part her gently with his fingertips; the next time he licks her, his tongue slides right over her clit, making her sigh. He opens his eyes to look up at her. It’s almost too intense, to have him watching while he pleasures her. He licks her again, not looking away, daring her to break eye contact first. She has the feeling he could do this all day.  
  
She feels a kick of pleasure just thinking about it, about having him on his knees for hours. She grips the back of his head, holding him in place. He tests it for a moment, trying to pull back, to no avail. The realisation makes him moan, or maybe he was moaning anyway, she cannot really tell. With the limited range of motion he has, he ducks his head a little, and with a petulant air of exercising extraordinary self-control, gently pushes his tongue into her.  
  
He draws it out again, and then slowly licks back in. He pushes his face against her, trying to get deeper. He is completely shameless. His eyes are shut, his mouth is open, and he looks as close to bliss as she has ever seen him.  
  
“Oh, look at you, you _love_ this, ah--” she gasps. He gives a little moan of assent, tongue still inside her.  
  
Without opening his eyes, he slides his tongue out and replaces it with two of his fingers. His mouth is on her clit now, his tongue moving in slow, insistent circles. He pushes a third finger into her, sliding them deep, rocking them back and forth. The angle is perfect. The tension inside her is building low enough that she knows she’s going to ejaculate when she comes, and now she can’t wait. She wants to cover his face with it.  
  
She puts both hands on the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, urging him to continue. He’s making soft little “unh” noises as he licks her. He clutches her thigh with his free hand, pulling her down onto him.  
  
“I’m going to come on your face,” she says, breathless and triumphant.  
  
“Please,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on her again.  
  
She is straddling him now; between her thighs, he is almost trembling with arousal and exertion. The tip of his tongue rubs mercilessly over her clit while he fucks her with his fingers. She pushes her hips into his face, greedy for it. Their noises become frantic and mindless. Her mouth falls open, gasping. She’s so close she can feel it in her toes, feel the clench low in her abdomen.  
  
He closes his lips around her clit and sucks. She comes, crying out as she gushes on his face. She clamps her own hand over her mouth just in time as she convulses again. Loki’s eyes are screwed shut; he’s moaning with pleasure, so intense it sounds like anguish, his tongue still working her as she soaks him in her come. She feels her orgasm peak again, arching her back, gasping for air. He’s shaking beneath her. As she finally exhales, she realises that he has come, too; untouched.  
  
They heave gasping breaths, panting in unison. Her arms have gone a little numb. With some difficulty, she climbs off and slides down next to him. For a while they sit in silence, catching their breath, looking at each other in awe. Loki looks exhausted; his lips are swollen, his face is wet, and he has never been more beautiful to her eyes.  
  
“You even come like a man,” he says, sounding giddy. No undertone of mockery, just excitement. She wishes he would always sound like this.  
  
“Only sometimes,” she grins. She elbows him for his choice of phrase, but without much force. His face is still wet. She casts around and offers him the hem of his own discarded tunic. He takes it and mops himself up, rather half-heartedly.  
  
“This was an appalling disincentive, Sif,” he says after a moment, laughing a little.  
  
“Next time, I will make sure you can’t come at all, then,” she says sweetly. She knows where she can get such a device - and so does he, if the blood draining from his face is any indication. She decides it may be fitting to leave him with that to think about.  
  
She puts her clothes back on and gathers up the rest of her belongings. She is in severe need of a bath. He is still sitting on the floor wearing nothing but his leggings and a slightly dazed expression. A part of her wants to be gone before his brain can catch up with him. Before he turns back into the callous little demon he is most of the time.  
  
“You know where to find me!” he calls out after her.


End file.
